The Quiet Michiyuki
by Dubhshlaine d'Aubigny
Summary: Kyuzo is dead and is living the afterlife. But promises have been made that have to be kept. This is his process.
1. Chapter 1

My first story! Yay!

Disclaimer- I do not own Samurai 7 or anything trademarked that stems from it (we all wish we did, though, don't we?)

Chapter 1

His long nimble fingers danced across the ivory keys. The heat of the noon's light was stunted by a cool breeze that barely lifted the blossoms off of the cherry tree. His music glided along with this breeze, that same music he had played that afternoon. The garden, the gazebo, the flowers, the breeze; they almost all disappeared. He could almost see the room he had used to play that same song in. A faint smile quickly crossed his face. I'm old, he thought. He chuckled softly. And on he played, every note making all the memories flood back to him. It's amazing how much one small moment can make you recall so many others. It's amazing how much one can remember. And on he played, his thoughts making him slightly dizzy.

Of course he had heard the man; the funny man who acted old, the only one who bothered to try and make himself silent and invisible. He could hear the man straightening himself up, pushing the creases off his clothes. The man waited for the song to end, but it didn't. He wondered if he should interrupt. He didn't want to be the one the dono's unhappiness was blamed on. Or the breaking of his meditation. The funny man wrestled with his thoughts. His parents encouraged him often, but his sense of self was cemented. I am, after all, he thought, a kohai. He could not hope to hold a candle to the dono. His unease had been sensed. The music stopped abruptly. The kohai braced himself. A shout was never heard in this house, but their eyes could bore right through your soul...

'Yes,' the dono said in the most unused of voices. It was a battle worn voice, perhaps a little weary, but calm. The kohai thought of how to begin. He couldn't sense any emotion to at least hint at the direction he should take. Perhaps it was his quivering hands distracting him.

'Hmm, yes, hmm, sir…' He couldn't bring himself to look at those dark eyes, but he could feel them. His muttering was neither silenced nor mocked. At last he found the words.

'I've come to collect your ketana.' The silence hung in the air like thick, acrid smoke. Perhaps I should elaborate, thought the kohai. Maybe he thinks I'm challenging him.

'Yukiko-sensei has asked me to fetch them. To be sharpened, Kyuzo-dono.'

With his last words he realized he was still bowing. Shouldn't I get up? Will I appear disrespectful if I do? His thoughts reeled. He raised his head. A part of him was a bit surprised to see the man still sitting there. But the greater part urged him to put his head down before those eyes, those eyes like deep, dark wells, rent his soul from his body. But he was drawn to them. They called out to his very being. He couldn't stop them boring through him. He clenched his fists and pinched his eyes shut, and swiftly brought his head down again. A smile flitted over Kyuzo's face, barely discernible from a slight twitch. He sat there, arms at his sides, silently watching this funny man. He had absolutely no intent on harming him but the man was very nearly feverish.

'You say Yukiko-sensei sent you.' His voice was calm. It always was.

'Yes, yes he has.' The messenger thought he looked hilarious, bent over with sweat dripping from his forehead. But he had been sent. He had been asked specifically. 'I was told to come with great haste,' he added, his voice pitching precariously. The funny kohai tensed his body, readying himself for the inevitable dismissal. His mouth was forming the words to his sensei: 'He has refused. He asks that someone more worthy be sent and no more be sent that quiver at the very talk of weaponry. He asks, too, that I…'

'What is your name?' The kohai's mind was cartwheeling, making him feel lightheaded.

'Suichiro, sir.' He still stood there, bowing; the silence pressing him down so hard he thought he would collapse.

'Can you be trusted, Suichiro-san?' Suichiro gulped. _Everybody _trusted him. He was the resident secret-keeper, practically. He thought it made him seem trivial, sometimes.

'If one is honourable one can trust me, sir.' Kyuzo raised an eyebrow.

'Do you think I am honourable, Suichiro-san?' he asked, his voice menacingly level, though that was not his intention. Suichiro dug his fingernails into his palms.

'I believe you are honourable with every fraction of my being, Kyuzo-dono.' He told the truth that he could never deny. Even if he wanted to lie, he hated to think of what the mind behind those eyes would command its body to do.

The sun made the back of his neck tingle. He did not realize that Kyuzo had risen from the seat at the piano, or that he had disappeared from the garden. He had gone round to the part of the garden populated by rich, green shrubbery; high, perfectly trimmed. He slid back the shoji more silent than he was, and walked into his own private rooms. Nothing was extravagant: an ordinary bed, and ordinary walls. Each item had its place, and none knew them better than he did. He reached out and pulled two identical ketana from their sheath. The light shimmered on the blades, forming a slight haze around them. He felt their weight in his hands and remembered the first time his palms had clasped their hilts. 'These are yours,' he had been told. 'When you use these, they will become an extension of yourself. Moving as you move, feeling your will and committing themselves to it to beyond their ability. Take great care of them, and they will do the same for you.' He shut his eyes and let the pride he felt course through him. Not a narcissistic pride, but the kind that is earned and cherished, that is unconditional and cannot be erased. A single blossom floated into the room and reminded him of where he was. He could still see the funny kohai's form through the branches of the cherry tree, still bowing, so still he could be mistaken for a statue. Kyuzo walked back and stood soundlessly in front of the man. 'There you go,' he said quietly. They didn't make a sound in their sheath. Suichiro hesitated only slightly at the thought of handling such formidable weapons. He stood up straight and held out his hands. He had to doubly reassure himself that he was holding them. They were incredibly light. 'I trust you.' Suichiro mustered a grave expression on his face and tried to exude trustworthiness in a curt nod. He bowed and walked quickly out of the garden.


	2. Chapter 2

Back again

Back again.

So sorry to take so long, writing fanfic is harder than it seems. And besides, it isn't as if one has an encyclopaedia to constantly refer to in order to validate every fact so as to be as accurate as possible. If something seems a bit off kilter in my work, feel free to highlight my errors, and I will endeavour to put them right as best I can.

Thanks very much ssfrozenfire. Hope this lives up to your expectations. Enjoy.

Chapter 2

Even long after he had gone, Kyuzo could still hear Suichiro's footsteps. The sound unsettled him. The memories flooding back to him made his vision blur. He dismissed as the heat, and decided to turn indoors for a moment out of the sun. It was almost time for tea, besides.

He crossed the courtyard, his long strides moving him soundlessly across the garden. He knelt and untied his bootlaces, swatting away the memories.

Silence bathed the house. It always had. It was just their way of life. To strangers it would appear that all the inhabitants were mute. But they spoke. In hushed tones; never in a hurry; and only what needed to be said. Truly, it was a tranquil place, where one would expect nought but to hear your own thoughts as clearly as a roaring river. That was the way it was, and, it would it appear, always be.

He slid the shoji back, its noise muffled by the slightest of breezes. He was sliding his feet across the tatami, like he had seen so many other people do when he was young, but had never bothered to ask why, he remembered. The other person in the room was heard before they were seen. Breathing quickly, sounding irritated, mostly. A small clicking sound resounded off the walls. Her impatient muttering gave her identity away. Aya.

He remembered the first time he saw her. He was repulsed. Smooth dark hair sleekly pinned back, a haughty walk and a particularly nasty habit of looking down her nose and frowning.

He must have uttered a sigh of annoyance, because she turned suddenly. Her stare was strange. Her eyes were like a chrysalis, revealing its product, opening wider and wider to release what it had been protecting. She was casting her soul through that stare. And his stare was as it had always been, never wide or bland, but reticent and almost cruel. And sending a feeling that he could do whatever he wanted to your spirit. She dropped the little box and the clicking stopped. The unlit kindling lay in the centre hearth. But there was one thing Aya couldn't do that was one of the things he had full mastery over. The shock spread across her face. His stare never wavered, and she turned shamefully away. Her naivety shone through and proved that all she had assumed of the world (and herself) could all be brought tumbling down as easily as a child would pluck a petal from a flower. Kyuzo could have laughed, he was about to let out a chuckle in fact, but noticed that her ears had turned a notable shade of pink. Did I make her blush, he asked himself, pressing his thumbnail down with his forefinger to stop himself from uttering a sound. He turned and left the tearoom, putting his boots back on before he went back to the seat by the piano. He chuckled, but coming from him, it was quiet and sounded as if he was clearing his throat. It's amazing what the mind could choose to bring to recollection for he could not remember the last time he had seen her. Perhaps that moment couldn't be called upon because it was similar to all the other memories he had of her: chortling into her sleeve; her eyes picking away at the younger, more vulnerable pupils; whispering to her friends, who many suspected at being rented off to her. Her family's 'superior nobility', which she often referred to, had afforded her a comfortable life of splendour. Her conduct was ridiculous amongst her peers, but she was ever the innocent around anyone else. What is she doing here, at my home, Kyuzo asked himself, his temper leaning towards anger. Perhaps my parents invited her, he thought, and, drenched in sarcasm, he thought, maybe she invited herself. Another thought still clawed at his mind. That look on her face, in her eyes. She seemed as thought she could coil into herself. Perhaps when her life's moment came, Kyuzo pondered, she saw, completely, how everyone else had seen her, and was greatly shamed by it, and now she carries that shame. Wishful thinking, he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dubhshlain again.

Finally wrote Chapter 3. Please send reviews; it makes it so much easier to work. Enjoy.

Chapter 3

But that look in her eyes. He was seeing it again in his mind. Something about it he couldn't easily recollect. It was strange. He wondered if he really had seen something or if it was just pity for her. Either or both could be right, perhaps one more right than the other.

He wondered, too, if his own actions were right, if they could be justified. Time was in great abundance; many more other things could be done. There was no reason to rush it. Each could have his ample time to prepare. Each could sort out matters they could not before. Each could confer, and review their reasons for this fight. He was repeating his own reason, silently, to himself. It was starting to seem absolutely ridiculous, now that he had given himself time to let each word form and relay its own meaning. "Because he is Samurai." The expectant and eager faces of those who asked would crumple. And he guessed that the vacant and frustrated feeling he left in them with was what he too would feel if he had asked the same question.

It was seriously ridiculous. They were both adults. Not every quarrel, especially one with such preposterous reason, had to be settled by a fight. But it was what was agreed. He didn't want it any different. The greater part of him was looking forward to it, actually. The tensing of the body before each movement; the smell of metal; the sound of the blades slicing through the air; the feel of his ketana in his hands. It was more of a physical memory, battle. It was so much a part of who he was.

And he had tried his best at _creating_ himself, ensuring a composition of what he felt were proper mien, conduct, made him who he was. He had kept to himself, almost always, unless the situation called for contrary behaviour.

The memory of him in those who had ever encountered him was similar: that light and powerful step; his hair covering most of his face; that infinite look in his eye.

This was never practiced; it came naturally to him.

Many felt that this was how he rebelled against the warm, inviting, though still quiet, nature of his parents. He was a serious toddler. But it all made him who he was. He neither hid nor denied his nature. And for this trueness to self he was greatly respected, and, more often than not, respect lapped over into fear. But he wasn't one to discourage such thought. If they fear what is vague it would be a shame to see them react in clarity, he once thought.

Though he still had that debonair about him.

Though he never settled. How could he, when his purpose was to fight, and the only home he knew was where he grew up, never giving himself a chance to build his own.

He breathed in deeply, smelling the sweet smoke of a wood fire, mingling with the blooms. A kettle whistled softly in the tea room. He heard his parents walk into the tearoom, and saw their shadows as they moved, observing each ritual as they always had. He stood and walked silently to join them.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He slid the shoji shut behind him. His parents sat at an angle to one another, and he sat in seiza opposite the vertex. He served himself, as he had since he was old enough to know how not to burn his fingers on the kettle. It was quiet when he blew on his tea.

"The beginnings of a lovely spring, wouldn't you say, Takeshi?" his mother said. His parents were beyond affection.

"Yes, a cool summer is coming, I think," his father replied. His father rarely called his mother by her name. Kyuzo couldn't even remember him saying it. Silence hung as the small cakes were bit into. Kyuzo let them pass; he still couldn't stand their sickly sweet taste. His parents talked on, and he lost himself in their congenial conversation.

They had always been like that, behaving as though they were strangers on a train, passing the time. The three of them stood out from the rest of their family, or rather, blended easily with the silent background. When they were amongst them, they appeared to have been denied their inheritance of the power of speech. And he was a defenceless toddler when his aunts pounced, pinching, shrieking, cooing.

"Thank goodness he looks like his mother," they said when they first saw him. Obviously, he learned to be more evasive. He could already deliver an incredibly cold stare by the age of eight. He never sulked, no mood swings: he was a dream to raise. He was an even greater kohai. He had bested his sensei three years. His sharp mind was only matched by his blade. Despite all this abundance of talent, he was never boastful, and very few knew his name.

"More tea, Takeshi?"

"I'm fine for now."

His mother always used his father's name when she spoke. So as not to forget, he was once told. Home was vaudeville. They continued to talk, he in silence. The meaning of their words so deep and complicated that none but those with such a bond could hope to interpret.

The silences in between were near stifling. The glances at him flitted too quick to be seen, but scalding enough to be felt. But, why didn't they say anything? Or could they not?

They continued to talk to themselves, never once mentioning him, or the impending battle, or even the strange and yet unexplained presence of Aya; she could barely be called a _distant_ relative. After a while, their voices became a solemn hum in the background, and he concentrated on the fire under the kettle. Each flame appeared to act of its own accord, doing whatever it could to reach the kettle. Some flicker and disappear, but those that reach the kettle made a black mark on it. He grinned as he watched a bright blue flame lick the tip of the spout.

"Weather like this brings back memories," his father said softly. His mother smiled, but she didn't reply. She looked at her son and radiated pride, then grief, smothered as quickly as it came. Kyuzo didn't need to see her face to feel her sentiments. He did not say anything to comfort her. What could he have said, anyway?


	5. Chapter 5

I'm uploading all the chapters I've written so far. I'm afraid that I might lose them all, since I lost everything that was on my memory stick (damn viruses-hackers-sloppy firewalls damn it!) Hope you all enjoy it.

Chapter 5

The fire played on the underside of the kettle. It was still quiet, with the occasional crackle of the burning wood.

"More tea, Kyuzo-dono?" his mother asked. One side of his mouth curled upwards and he leaned forward slightly and handed her his cup. The shoji were pushed apart, and the young woman, Aya, stormed in, her hair untied and flailing, her face wet with tears. She threw herself onto the floor, her heavy sobs drowning the sound of tea being poured. She crawled close to the hearth and turned to Kyuzo. Her eyes were red. He blew on his hot tea.

"Kyuzo-dono, you have to think this over, please!"

He did not look up. Crawling closer, she wiped her cheek with her sleeve.

"Please, this fight isn't necessary. Can't this be resolved in another way?"

He sipped his tea. He sobs shook her, and she still had that look in her eye. The one he had seen earlier, the one he couldn't explain. Her shoulders quivered as she drew a deep breath to steady herself.

"An appeal could be made and the agreement could be dissolved. Another way can be found to solve this matter."

She was a bit out of breath, and her chest was still heaving from the crying. Kyuzo put his cup down and raised his head. Aya backed away without thought. His look was hardened resolve and none could miss the depth. It was the menace that made her give him room.

"It has been decided, all has been agreed," he said to her calmly, not a trace of emotion passing his face.

His voice had always been like this, she remembered. She didn't think he'd ever raised his voice. She clenched her fists and readied herself for a retort, but someone appeared in the open doorway. The man was stunned by the salty smell mingling with the tea's aroma. The man turned to Kyuzo, and he swore that he had seen a smile, but strangely noticed that the lines around his eyes were almost not there at all. Suichiro cleared his throat quickly and handed Kyuzo a long, rectangular darkwood box.

"Kyuzo-dono, it has been done."

He bowed quickly and looked expectantly at the box.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?"

"I trust you, Suichiro-san."

He raised an eyebrow and Suichiro bowed to hide his blushing face. He stood still.

"Anything else, Suichiro-san?" his mother asked. He rose and blinked.

"Oh, yes. A message from the daimyo. He has arrived and the agreement will be settled before the end of the day."

He bowed again, and Takeshi said, "Your conduct is admirable, Suichiro-san. Thank you."

Suichiro bowed again and walked away

They had all heard the gasp from Aya as Suichiro spoke. She began to weep again, quietly. Kyuzo reached for his cup and finished his tea. The kettle was taken off the fire and things were taken away. The dark box sat next to him, in no hurry to be opened.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Suichiro's footsteps echoed still. They would always echo, Kyuzo thought. Aya had ceased weeping, but her shaken breathing was loud. His mother rose to close the shoji, but Aya rose quickly.

"No, please, allow me." They all thought she was going to leave, and were slightly surprised when she sat down again. Every other breath still rattled her. The logs of the fire burned white, though the room stayed cool. They were all quiet, expectant. Any moment now, the agreement would be set; he would have to prepare. The daimyo would walk in…

"Tie your hair, Aya-chan." She nodded slowly to herself as she fished a pin from the back of her head. Her hands moved nimbly: twisting here, tousling there, her fingers knew where every strand was. She finished quickly; her hair looking like it took hours. Kyuzo noted how simple she looked as she dried her eyes and cheeks. It must have only emerged much, much later, he thought. Then she tossed her hair with the back of her hand, like she did when she dismissed someone. The conceit came and left her eyes quickly. She pressed her hands to her eyes and cheeks. She had managed to stop herself shaking. They all sat still, breathing slowly and deeply.

From somewhere outside of the tearoom, someone knocked hollowly. Takeshi lifted his head, looking straight ahead, and then a young man with close-cropped hair and a dour expression pushed the shoji open. He stepped in first, bowing curtly to the family and the lady. They stood and bowed to him. The daimyo sauntered in, followed by another man, but he had much longer hair and an anxious expression. They all bowed to the daimyo, and he bowed to them, slowly and perfectly.

He turned to the man with short hair and said, "Thank you, Tadao-san." They all sat in seiza, and were silent for only a moment, and then the daimyo spoke again.

"The agreement is to be settled."

He turned to Kyuzo, and they stared at one another. None of them flinched.

"Has the Draught in your chamber been repaired, Daichi-sama?" Takeshi asked, adopting a casual tone, though the menace would have been impossible to hide.

The daimyo frowned and replied, "Repaired. Quite well." He turned to Kyuzo's mother and said, his voice oily and sticky sweet, "Your beauty is almost blinding. Time favours the beautiful. Masa-dono, you are ravishing."

She turned away dramatically. "Thank you, you are far too kind," she said flatly. He turned to Aya, his eyes glinting.

"And who is this picture of perfection?" A choice flitted between Takeshi and Masa.

"This is Aya-chan. She is an acquaintance of the family."

No-one noticed the glance between Masa and her son. Aya placed her hands on the tatami and touched the ground with her forehead.

"I am honoured to meet you, great daimyo."

"No, the honour is mine," the daimyo replied stickily, licking his lips like a lizard. His gaze lingered on her as she rose, and her kimono creased oddly, which she quickly smoothed down. He turned to the odd man with the long hair, but Masa sprung up quickly.

"Tea?" she asked, almost fluttering her eyelashes. Aya joined.

"Yes, yes of course. I'll get the tea things."

The kettle was already on the rejuvenated fire before the daimyo could protest. They pressed further general conversation as they warmed the cups in hot water. Kyuzo remained quiet, as did the other two men who came with the daimyo, but all for completely different reasons. The smell of the tea filled the room again, this time mingled with the sweet smell of the pipe smoke that the man with the longer hair had prepared for the daimyo and Takeshi. Kyuzo watched as they all forgot themselves, chatting like the oldest of friends; Takeshi laying the sarcasm thickly, Masa plainly feigning flattery, Aya imitating and Daichi believing it and not at all simultaneously. Tadao edged into the conversation and told a particularly distasteful joke. The daimyo passed him a very disapproving glance, but everyone else laughed out of politeness, their faces brazenly showing their obvious distaste.

The laughter was snuffed out quickly, and silence ebbed into the room. The man with the longer hair saw this as his moment, and he nudged the daimyo softly. The daimyo turned round, wondering what the matter was, and the man whispered something to him. Kyuzo heard it as clearly as he would have if it were shouted.

The daimyo nodded and said, "Yes, thank you, Daisuke-san." The man smiled at being recognised. The daimyo then tapped the ash out of his pipe and proceeded to take the scroll that Daisuke passed to him. Aya gasped so loudly and suddenly, that they were all startled. The daimyo internally shook himself, angry at himself for being so fearful and anxious. He unrolled the scroll on the floor in front of Kyuzo.

Dark blue wax contrasted the oddly-bright paper and the signature in red screamed to the room. A black line stood ominously at the bottom. The daimyo was nodding to himself, if one had not noticed the glance passed between he and Kyuzo. Daisuke nudged him again and this time he handed the daimyo a clear crystal inkwell, with a gilt lid, with a watery substance swirling inside it and an incredibly thin black brush, which glinted a greenish blue when it was exchanging hands.

The inkwell was placed right next to the scroll, by the black line, and the brush placed gingerly next to it. The daimyo looked around the room, his expression commanding absolute silence, and his bodyguard flexed his shoulders and twisted his head from left to right, ready to enforce the command. The room was already quiet, but then a deeper silence fell on them. It muffled their very breaths. The agreement is about to be sealed completely. The thought ran simultaneously through everyone's minds. Takeshi turned as if to say something, but movement from the daimyo stopped him. No more stalling. Daichi reached into his robes and pulled out a small knife in a simple black scabbard. The blade made no sound as it was pulled out. The black metal shone dully in the late afternoon sunlight.


End file.
